Heartfelt Thanks for a Father’s Way

Jeff Schloesser, an ungainly kid, joined my ice hockey team in a small New England town when I was about 12. He was new to the game and his struggle to stay upright was often painful to watch.

Nevertheless, Jeff seized a moment of fame one freezing night on an outdoor rink by scoring the winning goal.

Jeff’s heroic effort is among my father’s favorite memories from our years of youth sports practices, games and commutes.

“Jeff Schloesser scored a goal!” Dad exclaims, his eyebrows raising with delight.

The last time I was home, I asked my father if he remembered our record from the year Jeff Schloesser scored.

He couldn’t, and bless his heart for that.

Dad remembers the little things--the personalities and the fun. He never made an issue about whether my teams won or lost, advanced to the playoffs, or if I made the all-star team. He found a way to set the stage without climbing on it.

It was always clear that my father supported my desire to play sports. A man does not willingly rise at 5 a.m. and drive his sniveling son 150 miles in a snowstorm unless he loves him.

But recently I’ve come to realize how lucky I am that my father was content to remain in the background.

Several weeks ago, the Camarillo High softball team taped a sign to a fence at its field. “No parental coaching,” it read. “Love, your daughters.”

How many young athletes would like to take a marker and pen similar sentiments to cardboard?

Certainly the high school volleyball player who two years ago screamed for her father to stop as he struck a referee.

Or the soccer player whose father roamed the sideline at a December match, mocking the language of his son’s Armenian opponents.

You think such actions don’t work their way down to the players? At a recent Marmonte League baseball game, a dugout heckler referred to an African-American opponent as “Buckwheat” while his coach stood by.

But this isn’t a diatribe against the bad apples among parents of young athletes. This is a thank you to the rest of the barrel.

Thank you for taking tickets and selling programs and serving sandwiches to impatient fans.

Thank you for the hours you spend driving crowded freeways so your children can learn to play and be confident.

Thank you for playing three-flies-up when you’d rather put two feet up.

Thank you for watching your kids when you’d rather have been watching the Bulls play the Jazz.

Thank you for clapping when an opposing player makes a good play.

Thank you for not screaming at officials, other parents or at your child’s coach.

Trust me, your young athlete thanks you too.

When I was 14, I played on a hockey team where the stakes were supposedly high. Trips to the regionals, all-star berths and the attention of boarding school coaches were on the line.

We had a talented defenseman named Josh, whose father seemed on the verge of a coronary every game.

In this man’s mind, the referees were blind idiots, moronic clowns, Communist sympathizers. They were a threat to his son’s ascent.

Josh, his embarrassment palpable, stared at the ice or the floorboards of the bench while his father ranted.

In contrast, a teammate asked me later that season if my father was a minister. Dad was spotted reading the Bible between periods of a game. It was assumed he was a deeply pious man.

In truth, my father, a university English professor, was preparing for a lecture the next morning. He felt no need to rehash plays or the coach’s mistakes at intermission.

This is not to say Dad, a mild-mannered and somewhat reclusive man, was beyond absorbing himself in a game. But his focus was on their anecdotal value, not their outcomes.

He remembers thinking a player who fell and lay motionless for several minutes was seriously injured, only to find out later the kid was afraid to stand up because his suspenders had snapped.

He remembers the team mother who lost two teeth while playing in a parent-son game with a team of 8-year-olds.

He also remembers the mother who leaned out over the Plexiglas sideboards just as her son, a kid on the other team, was about to sock me in the chin.

“Russell, don’t you dare!” she shouted. “That boy’s not worth your time.”

Happily, Russell held off. My father, standing nearby, held his tongue.

No sense arguing when you can laugh instead.